Page 76 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Cleo blew out a long, slow breath. “A few hours ago I didn’t even know Luca had a brother.”

“You do not like the idea of Gio taking the job?”

Cleo laughed shakily. “Ask me again after I’ve wrapped my head around everything that’s happened today.”

Stefania handed her a wooden rolling pin. At least this rolling pin looked more like a cooking utensil than a deadly implement. “If you need to think, you must roll dough.”

“You’d get along great with my friend Sarah.”

Stefania handed her a ball of pre-made dough from the refrigerator and Cleo set to rolling it out while Stefania chopped vegetables. She chopped like a pro, as fast and confident with a knife as Luca, her zucchini slices paper-thin.

“How do youdothat?” Cleo asked.

“The trick is to use the right knife, and to know how to hold it.” Stefania held up the knife. “You must pinch the blade where it connects to the handle with these fingers.” She wiggled her thumb and index finger. “Then you wrap your other fingers around the handle for support, but not too tight!” Stefania smiled. “It is like being in a relationship. Holding on too tight creates tension. You want your hold to be intimate and supportive, but not tight.”

Cleo laughed. “So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong!”

Stefania’s eyes were bright and amused. “You don’t seem to be doing so bad.” And Cleo knew they were no longer talking about chopping vegetables.

She returned to rolling out the dough, which was indeed therapeutic, partly because she could take out her pent-up emotions on the poor, harmless dough, and partly because Stefania gave her space to think.

Of course, it made sense that Luca wanted his family reunited, and Letizia deserved to be able to see her grandkids without sneaking behind her husband’s back. But did it have to come at the expense of Luca’s dreams? Didn’t he deserve a chance to prove himself, instead of once again being relegated to Gio’s shadow? She wasn’t sure who she was madder at: Giovanni for his stubbornness or Luca for once again not standing up for what he wanted.

By the time she deemed the pasta dough thin enough – certainly thinner and smoother than she’d managed to get it with Pierina breathing over her shoulder – she’d worked out her frustrations, but was no nearer any answers.

“You see,” Stefania said approvingly, “now you don’t want to kill Luca anymore.”

Cleo laughed. “Yes, you’re right.” She stood back to admire her handiwork. “Does everyone in Italy make their own pasta?”

“Not everyone, but I was taught to cook by a very hard taskmaster. Once, when the children were small and I was in a hurry, I bought ready-made pasta. All I could hear was Pierina telling me I was a failure as a wife and mother. I felt so guilty that since then I’ve always made my own. Maybe I’ve even gotten a little good at it.”

“You had lessons with Pierina too?”

Stefania nodded. “Letizia sent her here for three weeks to teach me how to cook.”

Cleo’s eyes rounded in horror. “Three whole weeks? But I thought Italian children learned to cook before they could walk?”

Stefania moved to the stove to start the sauce. “I was the youngest of four daughters. By the time I came along, my mother was tired of teaching us to cook.” She shrugged. “In the beginning, it felt like a chore, but over the years I’ve fallen in love with cooking. It feels good to make something that brings joy to others. Some of my best memories are the ones I’ve made right here in this kitchen with my family.”

Like a montage in a movie, Cleo pictured the evenings she and Luca had spent together as he cooked. When she was back in England, microwaving her dinners-for-one again, those would be among her favourite memories of Italy.

She reached for a knife to cut the pasta dough into strips, and Stefania laughed. “I may make my own pasta, but I don’t punish myself like that. Use a cutter.” She handed Cleo a stainless-steel device with a number of small, circular blades.

Magic. In a few minutes Cleo had a mountain of perfectly even pappardelle ribbons, without even breaking a sweat. “I’m giving Pierina one of these for Christmas,” she joked. And froze. Christmas? She wasn’t going to be here in another week, let alone for Christmas.

Stefania, browning the zucchini in a fragrant sauce of lemon and garlic, did not seem to notice her lapse. “Cooking for this family requires a lot of creativity,” she said. “Alessio is vegetarian and Chiara is … um, milk allergic? She cannot eat butter or cheese or cream.”

“Lactose intolerant,” Cleo corrected, as Stefania placed the pasta ribbons into a pot of salted boiling water.

“Did Pierina make you say the Hail Mary to get the sauce right?” Stefania asked.

Cleo blinked. “I grew up Protestant so I never learned the Hail Mary.” Considering how little she’d understood of Pierina’s instructions, maybe she’d missed that bit.

“Three Hail Marys while you stir counter-clockwise then reverse the direction.” Stefania dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I cheat. I sing pop songs in my head instead.”

Cleo laughed. She leaned a hip against the counter to watch Stefania alternately stirring the sauce and the pasta. “How do you feel about Gio going to work at the Fioravanti vineyard?”

Stefania’s took a long moment before answering. “We have a good life here, many friends in the neighbourhood, I have a good teaching job, and the children are settled in their school.” She looked around her kitchen. “The children grew up in this house, and I would be sad to leave.” Then her gaze met Cleo’s. “But we will discuss it, and if Gio wants to go home, we will make it work.”

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